My unit got dropped in a place called Yambio, or what was left of it. Next to it, Bullrich was fucking heaven. They wanted the place locked down—why, I had no clue. The fuckers that lived there were cut off, and to feed them took more than they had. The ones with the drugs had cash and guns. The rest just had guns. Yambio was a war zone that didn’t know or give a shit about the rest of the grind, never mind the world.
I did my time in a ghetto called Juba. The folks that lived there spent most of their time trying to eat and not get killed. Every night there was a gunfight, and it felt like every day when the sun came up, we pulled bodies off the street. In two years, the body count got a little lower, and that was about it. That’s what I had to show for my two years—that, and losing the fastest pound I ever lost.
Still, to the guys that had to live there, fewer bodies on the street was a big deal. Getting killed out of nowhere was their every-fucking-day. Any one of the bodies you found facedown in an alley, stinking and covered with flies, was somebody to someone. Some extra feet on the ground were a real big deal for them.
“Now arriving at Brockton-Stark Street Station.”
The bell went off, and I cracked my back. That was my stop. I did my part for Juba. I lost my hand, saved a life, and bunked next to five filthy jacks for almost two years. That was enough.
The station was mostly empty when I got off. I’d been on the red-eye all night, and the sun was still down. A few sad sacks stood staring at the tracks. Some got on and a few got off with me. Mostly it was bums, and not many of them. I looked around for my ride, but didn’t see him.
Figures.
When I shipped out, the guys from the fight club moved my shit to storage for me. I signed up for four years on the Army’s tit, but after the hand, they sent me home and I was on my own. My old place had been a shit hole, but at least it was a place to land; it was long gone now, and I had to live somewhere. Some group called Second Chance stepped up to help out. They got me set up with a new place while I was still in the med center. It wasn’t far out of Bullrich, but far enough. They said a rep would meet me at the station when I got back, but so far …
Meeting: EMET Corporal Calliope Flax.
The words popped up on my HUD. That was the guy.
I took a step off the platform, and someone stepped out in front of me. It was some spooky chick with a red poncho and a wool cap. Her blue eyes were smeared with black makeup.
“What’s your problem?” I asked her.
“I want to tell you something,” she said. I felt kind of dizzy for a second.
“So tell me.”
“Come closer,” she said. She waved me in with one hand, and I leaned forward.
As soon as I did, she got on her toes and whispered right in my ear. I didn’t catch what she said because of the noise, but right then I got dizzy like before, but worse. I swayed, and she put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed.
You will remember Zoe Ott.
I got a weird flash. There were guns, fire, and smoke, but it wasn’t Juba. It was before. It was cold and dark. I was heading down, deeper and deeper. I had no clue where I was. All I knew was someone was calling me. Someone needed me.
She pulled back and the flash stopped. She gave my shoulders one last squeeze.
“Jeez, you’re ripped,” she said. The dizzy spell passed. “Beat it, you fucking nut job,” I said, but the little bitch was already walking away.
Meeting: EMET Corporal Calliope Flax.
The words came up again, then faded out. I tried to place the weird memory, but I couldn’t. It was snowing, I thought. Nico was there. When I turned to look for the little weirdo, she was gone.
Meeting: EMET Corporal Calliope Flax.
I shook it off, and followed the strays off the platform. The station was like the land of the dead. One guy stood out, though—an old black dude in a long coat and a hat with a brim. He was parked on a bench next to a bum with shaky hands and a big scar on his face. He talked, and the hobo nodded.
Look up, I said.
The old guy raised his head. With the hat out of the way, I saw there were a lot of miles on his face and his kinks had gone gray. There was a Second Chance pin on his collar. When he saw me, he smiled.
“Excuse me for one moment,” he said to the bum, who dug at his scar with a yellow fingernail. It looked like someone had cut him a long time ago.
“Corporal Flax?” the old man asked as he got up, and held out his hand.
“Cal,” I said. His skin was like leather and his grip was strong.
“Cal it is,” he said. “I’m Leon Buckster. I’m with Second Chance.”
He gave the bum a pat on the arm, then gave him his card.
“You go ahead and call that number,” he said. “Or just come down, and I’ll get you set up.”
“Just like that?” the bum growled.
“We can get you to the minimum requirements. After that, we can get you a whole new level of help. Understand me?”
The guy nodded.
“I have to go now,” Buckster said. “Don’t lose that number. Take that first step. It’ll get easier after that, I promise.”
The bum stared at the card. Buckster turned back to me. “Thought maybe you weren’t showing,” he said. “Shall we?”
“Sure.”
We left, and when I looked back at the bum, he was still looking at the card.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Recruiting.”
“You recruit bums?”
“Indigent,” he said. “Or homeless. Don’t call them bums. We don’t recruit them for ourselves; we help get them rehabilitated enough to qualify for Posthumous Service.”
“You talk bums into getting wired?”
“PS is an automatic upgrade to tier-two citizenship. At tier two they have access to better aid, better facilities. We can get all kinds of help for them we can’t manage for a tier three.”
“They’re okay with that?”
“Did that guy look like he had anything to lose? The homeless are quickly becoming the largest percentage of posthumous servers, above even your educated service-duckers.”
“If you say so.”
“We recruit quite a few from Bullrich. I grew up there.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, but fuck Bullrich.”
“Give it a few years. You may feel differently,” he said.
“You serve?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was hard to guess how old he was, but old. Had this shit been going on that long?
“I’ve got a car outside,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you where you want to go.”
“Thanks.”
I followed him out. Up on the street it was pouring out, but it was home, and it was good to see. Neon was lit up all over, and no matter where you looked, there was a TV screen. It looked great.
We headed to the pickup entrance, then down three flights to the lot. He walked up to a piece-of-shit micro-bus and pulled the driver’s-side door up.
“You can put your pack in the back.”
He leaned inside and popped the trunk. I stowed my pack and climbed in next to him.
“Where to?” he asked.
I fired the address of the storage place to him over the JZI as he backed out and started up the steep ramp toward street level.
“Actually, we were contacted by an old associate of yours by the name of Eddie, from the old Porco Rojo. He provided a bunch of muscle who helped move your things to your new place. It’s all in boxes, but it’s waiting for you. All you have to do is move in.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t expecting that. “There, then, I guess. Thanks.”
“You got it.”
He flashed his ticket at the scanner, then pushed his way out onto the main street.
“How long were you in for?” I asked him.
“Six years. You?”
“Signed up for four. Got two.”